Bloom
by FaylinnNorse
Summary: He kept the flower, but it didn't always bloom. Because some flowers only bloom in the imagination. If Cloud had kept the flower he bought from Aerith, what might have happened. Cloud/Aerith oneshot.


He kept the flower, but it didn't always bloom.

He remembered when he bought it from her first. She looked so innocent with her pink dress and hair ribbon, green eyes shining with hope. "Would you like to buy a flower?" she asked, with a sweet voice like music. "It's only a gil."

He shrugged slightly. Why not? He didn't need one by any means, but he could give it to Marlene or Tifa later. He knew everyone in the slums needed money, and she obviously wanted him to buy one, so where was the harm?

He took the flower home, and he thought about giving it away, but then he thought of green eyes and a pink bow, and he decided not to. He could always buy another one later if he saw her again. Maybe it was a selfish thing, but something about the flower, or maybe about her, made him wanted to keep it.

At first it was little more than a tiny white bud, not yet opened up to the world. The petals all curled inward, tucked inside itself like it was hiding. He kept it next to his bed when he slept, tucked it into his clothes during the day. It didn't crumple though, or wilt, just stayed as a perfect tiny bud, an idea of what it could be.

Then he met her again, crashing through the roof of the church, falling into flowers in full and vibrant bloom. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw were her eyes, green and sparkling, and her bright hair ribbon.

They talked, and he agreed to be her bodyguard. After all, why not? He was vaguely aware that it wasn't a normal request and he wouldn't usually have agreed. But he knew that everyone in the slums needed protecting sometimes, and she obviously wanted him to agree, so where was the harm?

When he went to bed that night and took out the flower, he noticed that it was starting to open up. A petal or two were reaching out, spread a bit wider, coming into a realization of its full potential to bloom, like a real flower.

He dragged her into the fight with Shinra and Sephiroth. He didn't mean to, but she didn't seem to mind. She only smiled, and she seemed to want to be in the fight, want to be with him, maybe. And he didn't mind being with her either, so where was the harm?

His flower unfolded all the while, slowly but surely. The petals started to unfurl one by one, closer and closer to really blooming. It didn't completely bloom, but it was almost there and growing by the day.

She told him she was all alone, the last Cetra, the only Ancient. He told her that he...they were there with her. And he meant it. It wasn't another promise he followed through with because he had to. He wanted to be with her, wanted to protect her as her bodyguard, her friend, forever maybe.

Another petal freed itself from the rest, turning outward to the world.

She dragged him on a date at the Gold Saucer, pulling him onto the stage and into the gondola. He kissed her in the play; her green eyes smiled at him. They watched the fireworks burst like tiny stars above them. She said they were pretty, but he thought that she was the really pretty one.

He talked with her, laughed with her, fought enemies with her. In battles he felt it was his duty to protect her, as her bodyguard. He did, and she always thanked him. In life, she seemed to feel it was her duty to make him smile. She did, and he always thanked her with an awkward sideways smile, a tilt of his head, or a shrug in his shoulders.

His flower was nearly in full bloom now. The petals were bright white and shining, but if he looked closely he could almost see other colors in them. They were flowing, cascading around each other in light, airy greens and yellows and pinks. They felt light, airy, like he imagined the Promised Land would be. Like she was.

And then she died. Plucked like a flower, left trampled on the ground. She laid unmoving, unfeeling in his arms, crimson blood flowing like a river down her chest. He felt confused. He felt lost. He felt guilty.

She shouldn't have died. She was too young, too sweet, too innocent. It wasn't fair. She was dead before she'd hardly lived. A possibility of dreams, life, love, all cut short. And there was nothing he could do. He only held her in his arms, limp like a rag doll, but still warm, reminiscent of life.

He gave her up at last, watching her drift out of his arms slowly. Then she was gone.

He didn't look at the flower for a long time. When he finally did, it was dead. The petals were blackened and crumpled, wilted and dried. They broke off easily when he touched them. It was dead, dead before it even bloomed. She was dead the same way. And nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

It made him angry, though, after a while. He wanted it to bloom. He put it in water, set it in the sunlight, wished for it to bloom. It didn't.

He went back to her church and picked more of them, carefully pulling them out of the ground. He gave them water and sunlight again, good soil to grow in, to bloom in. But they died within a day when he took them out of the church, turning to a drooping, withering mess.

He pounded fist into the table until his vase fell over, water spilling out into standing pools. He wanted a flower. Just one, blooming brightly with her brightness, her vivacity in life. He wanted a flower to remember her by.

He took more, but it was always the same. Only she could make them bloom, apparently, only in her church. He thought about taking more, but what was the use? They'd only die, and he was beginning to grow sick of death.

He stood and looked at them, frowning for several moments, wondering why he couldn't carry her memory with him. Then, he heard her. Quiet at first, but certain; it was her voice, humming gently behind him. He could feel her breath on his shoulder.

He turned swiftly, startled, but didn't see her. He heard a slight giggling and turned again.

She stood up from where she was at the edge of the garden, leaving the flowers she was tending to and turning her full attention to him. She didn't say anything at first, just smiled. She picked a flower and held it to her nose, breathing in the fresh scent.

"They don't bloom, you know," he said at last. "Not outside of here. I take them home and...they die. Just like you died."

She still doesn't say anything, but stays breathing her flower. After a minute, she walks a ways and bends down again, running her fingers over the silky petals of yet another flower, humming all the while.

He sighs, frustrated. He's seen her before like this, in dreams. Tending her flowers, but never tending to him. He wishes she would. He wishes...so many things, but none of them will ever come true. It makes him angry, sometimes, now. "You're not real!" he says. "The flowers aren't real, if they were they'd bloom. None of this is real!"

She turns to him, and his breath catches as he sees her eyes so green and vivid before him. She walks towards him; her steps are graceful, almost like a dance. "Aren't we, Cloud?" she asks, reaching out and pushing her flower into the pocket of her coat. She dances around him in a circle, and he can feel the air she moves, the air she breathes.

Finally, she stops and looks up into his eyes. She smiles. And she steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing herself tightly against him. He can feel her heartbeat, something he never thought he'd hear again. Remembering her death, she feels so small and fragile against, but real, too, clasped against him.

After the shock is over, he puts his arms around her, too, spreading his fingers over her back, holding her tighter. He doesn't want to lose her again, doesn't want her to die. He wants to see her bloom.

In a few moments, she pulls away from him, but smiles still. "Maybe they do bloom, Cloud. Maybe you just have to learn how to see them," she says.

He only looks at her, puzzled, and she begins to fade away into brightness. The church seems darker when she's gone. There aren't as many flowers, it seems, but they're still bright and blooming, with a life that can never be cut short.

He sighs slightly, and he turns to walk away. He still wishes things could be different, and maybe he always will. But he picks up the flower out of his pocket and looks at it. Its petals are all opened wide, shouting joy and happiness to the world. He smiles.

Afterward, he always kept a plethora of flowers in his room. They were always blooming, vibrant and full of life. He wished she could see them, be with them. But he always thought of her with them, smiling and breathing in the scent, stroking the petals. He thought of himself with her, smiling, too. He always smiled easily around her.

He thought of the both of them, blooming along with the flowers. And he smiled at what was bittersweet. Some flowers bloom only in the imagination.


End file.
